


Maybe I Will Live to Love

by Sylvesterelle



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: A bishop being cool with a whole lotta shit he'd not be cool with, F/M, Light Angst, Personal Growth, Post-Canon, feelings are had by all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2020-09-26 06:16:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20385022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylvesterelle/pseuds/Sylvesterelle
Summary: She held on to the memory of his determination to know where she went when she slipped away from him, his refusal to let her shut him out. Like the only thing that mattered was her, right there with him. Like the only thing he cared for in the world was her answer.All of this, she tucked away, stored in a secret pocket of her heart.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I finished marathoning both seasons a few hours ago and felt absolutely wrecked after the ending--it was so beautiful and aching and perfect and, to be perfectly honest, devastating. I want to know more about their growth, the time after, and if there was a future in which they could be together and if they're not going to film it, I may as well write it. 
> 
> Title from "All Die Young" by Smith Westerns.

She was promised passing, but there were moments that remained.

Not the moments she thought; not necessarily the cold metal of the bus shelter seat that last night; not the gaping hole she surely felt must exist in the vicinity of where her stomach once was. Sure, when it happened, it was all-encompassing. Inescapable. And, in a way, inevitable.

Yes, it was a devastation in the most literal of senses. A mourning not only for the loss of him, but for who she had started to become with him. And her traitorous body didn’t even give her the benefit of the grieving glow she had the last time around.

But, in time, those feelings passed, like he said they would; though perhaps not the feelings he had imagined at the time.

Instead, what remained was the memory of the laugh lines around his eyes, crinkling up in a pleased surprise at her naughtiest of jokes. The curve of his bicep in his street clothes, and the way his robes twirled around him in the dressing booth, gleeful like a child with a new toy.

She held on to the memory of his determination to know where she went when she slipped away from him, his refusal to let her shut him out. Like the only thing that mattered was her, right there with him. Like the only thing he cared for in the world was her answer.

All of this, she tucked away, stored in a secret pocket of her heart. And yes, the love. The love remained, long after he promised it would pass.

As if to spite his words, the love became a part of her. A certainty that lodged deep beneath her breastbone, a comforting hum that—though she would never admit it aloud—brought about the same sense of calm she felt that night, alone in the church pew, for a single moment ready to surrender herself to something bigger. Something unknowable.

Who would have thought she’d found religion at thirty-three?

Better yet, who would have thought that it’d come in the form of a love bigger than herself—a love that she held no hope of being returned.

It was a devotion that she knew made her better; the knowledge that she was capable of this depth of feeling, to care for another beyond sex, beyond practical use, beyond any possible benefit she could derive herself—it meant that there was something in her worth saving, still.

She had doubted it for so long, those months after Boo. When all her nerves felt raw and her insides scraped out, a shell that remained empty no matter what—or who—she tried to fill it with. Boo was the good one—the optimist, the champion of love, the one who admired erasers for their ability to forgive. Boo wasn’t the one who burned everything she touched, who had to poke at every scratch until it bled.

No, Boo was the safe place. A living light in every sense of the word. So she didn’t hesitate a second when Boo asked for all her spare love, a feeling so heady she forgot to save some for herself.

Maybe it even started earlier, watching her mum wither away as her own body turned on her. Maybe, without even realizing it, she’d made the decision to weaponize her body before it could do the same to her—a deflection as sure as the barbs she cracked and the imaginary audience she’d fancied watched her life, ensuring she was always in on the joke.

But a laugh is no replacement for a love of any kind, not a mother, not a best friend and—let’s be honest—soulmate. Claire had tried, bless her heart, but she was never one brimming over with goodwill and cheer and, let’s face it, her father and godmother weren’t quite flush with it, either.

No, her love for the priest was, in many ways, a salvation of its own kind.

A reminder not only that she was worthy of love, but that she was capable of producing it once again.

That she was more than her mistakes, more than her bad decisions, more than the need—at her very core—to escape herself. Now, there was something precious. Something worth protecting.

So, when he left, it wasn’t the end. No matter how much it hurt, it was a beginning of its own kind. And beginnings, you know, are never easy.

In the months to come, the love remained and even grew, some glorious, flowering thing that seemed to draw from everything it touched.

It grew when Claire finally left that asshole, Martin, and every time she facetimed from Finland to check on her little sister, hair finally growing out and cheeks flushed both from happiness and—let’s face it—the ass-numbing cold.

It grew when she took the guinea pig ephemera off the wall, placing it with care into a box—easily accessible, for when she wanted to remember, but allowing her to let go of the shrine she’d let the café become. The walls gained a bright coat of paint and fresh flowers bloomed in every corner—a luxury she could afford now that business had picked up, a steady stream of customers responding to some intangible feeling of comfort and companionship radiating from the freshly washed windows. The spillover of love affected even affected Hilary, the once-prickly creature now chattering happily to customers and even deigning to let herself be—on occasion—held.

It grew in leaps and bounds as she did the “work,” as her therapist (still unnervingly serious, still bedecked in scarves) called it, once a week allowing herself the space to face, head on, all that she’d been denying for so long (and the space to recover with a bubble bath and a bottle or two of wine, after).

The therapist had challenged her to let herself make a friend or two—actual friends, not people she wanted to fuck and forget. To everyone’s surprise, her’s not the least, a few initial, abashed texts had turned into weekly drinks with Belinda and semi-regular lunches with the Bank Manager, who had done the work of his own to reconcile with his family and, though still truly awkward at processing emotion, was generous to a fault, and happy to cover a weekend shift when she needed a day to herself.

It was as the priest had said: love was something best undertaken with company, and the more she surrendered and surrounded herself, saw the echo of emotion in her sister and her friends, the less alone she felt.

She had once wondered if everyone felt the same hollowness and pain she did, an unspoken misery that, if not bringing the world together, divided her from the rest. Now, she wonders if what she truly wanted was not a confirmation that their misery matched her own, but the hope of some—_any_—sense of connection to a world she feared she no longer belonged to.

He was right about a lot, that one. The thought brought a smile to her lips, as she clicked the espresso basket back into the machine—another recent addition that had quickly become a favorite of her regulars, no longer resigned to the slightly metallic taste of the old coffee pot.

The thought hurt less than she expected, outweighed by a quiet fondness for all that he’d brought into her life.

She hoped, somewhere, he felt the same.

//

“Son, there’s not just one way to live in God’s love.” The man chuckled as if this was obvious, adjusting his spectacles and leaning forward on the desk. “Surely you did not spend all those years in seminary, much less a childhood listening to my own humble sermons, without learning that?”

“Yes Father, but I believed—believe—that this was the way meant for me. How can I throw away those very years, my _vows_, without forsaking my faith?” the priest asked.

He stood with his arms clasped respectfully behind his back, belying the frustration plain on his face as he stood in front of the elderly bishop.

Part of him was ashamed to be sharing his doubts with the man, whose teachings he had grown up on, who had been a figure of comfort, stability, and reassurance when his parents were halfway down the bottle. The man who was instrumental in helping him leave behind his former life and had risen from his humble hometown parish to become a bishop, yet still had time for the lost boy—now a man—who sought his guidance.

The other part of him knew his need for answers outweighed the embarrassment he felt; after all, torment was nothing new these past months. It’d been his constant companion since the night he left part of his heart waiting for the 176 bus, the echo of his footsteps on the empty streets and the night foxes seeming to mock his choice. _You think this is better?_ _You think you can prove your faith through willpower alone?_ _Fool. Heretic, _they seemed to say. The priest sighed. Bloody foxes.

The bishop cleared his throat. “You still with me, son?”

The priest flushed, shaking his head to clear it of the memory. “Yes Father. I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize, child. It is clear there is something weighing at you. Come, sit, and tell me the real reason why you’ve come here today. What is causing these doubts?”

The priest ducked his head and settled into one of the leather chairs across the desk. He took the moment to steel himself. He lifted his head, meeting his mentor’s gaze head on.

“There’s a woman.”

The old man leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised incrementally.

“What, is that all?”

“Father?”

“Son, I am well aware of your…proclivities before you entered the priesthood. And you’re far from the first to be tempted.”

“This is just temptation, Father. It’s not about the—" He flushed. “Or, well, not only about that.”

“You can just say sex, child. I’m a bishop, not a saint.”

The priest smiled briefly at the man. “It’s not just about the _sex_, Father. This woman…God, she's a revelation. Endlessly funny and too smart by half, a family more fucked than mine--you'd love her. And when I'm with her...Jesus. You know I've had my doubts before, the love of God, the grace that I have, at times…struggled to see. When I'm with her, they disappear. Like her very presence confirms everything I needed to know. Though she's no saint, to be sure.” 

He snorted, shaking his head. 

“Being with her wasn’t the problem. Fuck, it was so far from a problem. It was being away from her—that’s when the doubts started to creep in. The guilt, the shame of it. I thought if I could just get some distance, refocus on the church…”

His mentor’s face was unreadable. “And? Did it work?” He prompted gently.

“For a while,” the priest smiled ruefully. “Or, at least, I could convince myself it did. Then I tried drinking until I believed it did. But every time I stood up in front of my flock, those people who welcomed me into their church, trusted me with their sins, held _complete _faith in my words, my wisdom…I felt father away from God than I did sitting on a park bench with her.”

He sighed.

"I haven’t seen her since I made my choice but, Father, she is with me always. It is her face I see when I close my eyes to pray, it is her voice I hear in my dreams. I am between my love of her and my love of God and I don’t know if I am strong enough to make a choice.”

The bishop’s face softened.

“Oh, child—it is not a question of strength, or will, or even choice. It is a question of calling.”

He sat back in his chair, folding his hands over his belly.

“We often speak of this position as a calling, an unchangeable, undeniable fate reserved for a few chosen souls. But, in truth, a man may have many callings in his life. After all, Jesus was not only the son of God, he was a carpenter, a friend, and—as some believe—a lover and husband.”

He leaned forward, a tickle of mischief in his eye.

“Perhaps you were called to the priesthood. Perhaps this is where you needed to be, lessons you, yourself had to learn. And perhaps your calling has changed. The voice of God speaks to you child, if you will but listen.”

The younger man snorted, thinking of the…_opportune _falling paintings. “Yes Father, I think he made his opinion pretty clear.”

The bishop raised a single eyebrow. “And you’re so sure you’re reading the signs of the Lord right?”

Chastened, the priest quieted.

“As for love…you don’t have far to look, child. ’Let love and faithfulness never leave you; bind them around your neck, write them on the tablet of your heart. Then you will win favor and a good name in the sight of God and man.’”

“Proverbs?” The priest asked.

“The very same. I’ll give you another—‘If I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing.’ Corinthians. And John: ‘No one has ever seen God; but if we love one another, God lives in us and his love is made complete in us.’”

The bishop rapped his knuckles on the hardwood desk, punctuating his point.

“Faith and love go hand in hand—they do not subtract, but multiply in the presence of the other. Forsake one, and the other shall surely suffer.”

The younger man tightened his clenched hands, nails digging into the tender skin of his palms. He wondered if there was communion wine within reach.

“So, what? I leave the priesthood and be with her? I stay in service and hide her away like a secret? Please, just tell me what to do, Father. I’m begging you.”

The man snorted.

“Now you’re just being foolish. I can’t tell you what to do—this is a decision you have to make for yourself. Decide what is most important to you—surrendering yourself to the calling towards faith and love and the uncertainty it brings with it, or remaining in the church and hoping that, someday, your calling will return to you. And if you need help finding the answer, surely you know what to do by now.”

The bishop paused for a moment, gauging the confusion on the boy’s face. “_Pray_. Honestly, son. It’s like I haven’t taught you anything.”

//

The priest was in something approaching shock as he left his mentor’s church. He made it seem so simple, this _thing _that has been eating at him for months, haunting his prayers and stealing the confidence from his voice as he spoke to his flock. Could it really be so simple? That faith is made stronger by love, that the closeness to God he felt when she was in his arms really was just that?

He had lived enough to know that when something seemed too fucking good to be true, it was.

And yet…

And yet.

The priest laughed, shaking his head with something like incredulity.

What was left of the life he was so afraid to lose, anyway? Would the shreds of his faith really be so much better off?

_Well_, he thought, stepping out into the sunlight. _Fuck me, indeed. _


	2. I Wanna Die with My Chin Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the end, in the very end, when they’ve exhausted all the should’s and must not’s and could never’s….they’re undeniably better together.
> 
> And that’s something worth believing in.

She knew God, if that bastard existed, had to have a sense of humor.

Why else would she be on her knees, arse in the air, at the exact moment when the man she’d been loving quietly for months decided to reappear?

Hilary, the old escape artist, had chewed a hole through the old wood and slipped somewhere between the cooker and the display case, a scant inch or two of space that required her to go belly-down on the floor under the table.

That’s where she was, a smudge of dirt on her face (_really have got to start cleaning regularly_) and arm shoved up to the elbow in the gap, waving a slice of cucumber enticingly at the unmoved guinea. When it happened. When he appeared. Or, more accurately, when the cracked bell above the door jingled open.

“Just a minute!” she called, the strain in her voice not quite disguised as she angled further into the crack.

“Is this how you greet all your customers, then? It’s a unique strategy, I’ll give you that.”

She wretched her head up at the sound of that familiar voice, made more for dirty jokes and lusty curses than Sunday sermons, promptly smacking the underside of the table with an audible thump.

“Jesus, fuck!” she swore, already feeling the lump that was sure to rise.

In seconds, there was a warm hand cupping her face, another running over her hair.

“Ah, fucking hell. I wasn’t opposed to a dramatic entrance, don’t get me wrong, but I was hoping for a little less blood.”

“Blood?” she asked, still not quite ready to accept any of this as, well, actually happening.

The priest pulled his hand from the back of her head, showing her the streak of red. “Don’t worry darling, blood’s your color. Makes you look tough as hell.”

She snorted and pulled away, faltering when she tried to stand.

“Ah, ah, ah, not so fast. You could have a concussion. Trust me, I’m a doctor.”

“Bullshit.”

“Show’s what you know—I’ve seen at least three episodes of General Hospital. You should sit down.” He guided her over to a table, settling her in before grabbing a wad of napkins.

“Priests have cable?” she asked, trying to focus on something other than the shape of his bicep as he leaned over her, applying pressure to the wound. Down girl. Keep it together.

“They do, actually. Comes with every chapel, two-for-one sort of thing. Pam thought I didn’t know her dirty little secret, but I saw those porn videos on DVR. Had a bit of a thing for gangbangs.”

She laughed, wincing as the movement sending a fresh wave of pain to her head. “Knew it. She had the look about her. And how is our Pam?”

“Ahh, I don’t know actually. I haven’t seen her in a few weeks.” He pulled back a little, gauging the flow of blood.

“It was a close one, but I think you’ll survive.”

She smiled up at him as he moved to sit across from her. He looked good—out of his collar for the day, shirt sleeves rolled off to show a tanned forearm and smudge of paint on his wrist.

_Has he taken up painting? Wonder if he does nudes. _

She was surprised at how familiar he was to her, still. How well she had remembered the curve of his fingertips, the patch of hair by his collar. She had expected her memory to fade, after all this time. For the fine details to smudge, just a bit. After all, it had only been one night.

_God, could it really only have been one night?_

“So.” She shifted awkwardly in her seat, the painted wood creaking ever so slightly. “How ah, how’re things? Do any weddings lately? Maybe a Bar Mitzvah, shake things up?

He smiled at her, indulgently. “Shaking things up, yes. Bar Mitzvah, no. Although that is something to consider, now you mention it. I think their rules on relations are a bit more on the ‘be fruitful and multiply’ track.”

She grinned. “Ah, my kind of people.”

He returned the look, the moment stretching out quietly between them. Gently he leaned forward, arms leaning against the table.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here.”

“The thought had crossed my mind, yes. But I figured you must be here to woo Hilary away once and for all, you cad.” 

“Wooing was on my mind, I can’t in good conscience deny that.”

“Well, get it on with it then. Hilary’s had a lot of gentleman callers, you know.”

“Ah, does she now.”

The lilt in his accent—how could she have forgotten that. She remembered so much, but the vestiges of her memory had not done that justice. The softness there, so often belying the acerbic wit.

But there was a more pressing softness in this moment; in the creases of his eyes, the set of his shoulders. Like the tension that had so often stretched him tight as a livewire had been siphoned out, washed away.

“Well I suppose I’ll just have to try all the harder then. She’s one of a kind, you know.”

He looked down, a small smile on his face.

It felt he was building up to something, and she had had enough hard conversations with Claire to know when it is best to wait it out—let the quiet do more than any words she could offer.

Finally, he met her gaze, the smile melting into something a little more unsure; a little more vulnerable.

“I left.”

She couldn’t contain the snort, as inappropriate as she knew it was.

“Well, yes, I think that has been well established. But I do thank you for the reminder.”

He smiled a little sadly.

“No, dear. This time it was a little bigger than a bus stop.”

“Train station?”

“The church.”

She started, dropping the napkins she’d been pressing to her head.

“Sorry, I think I may have hit my head a bit harder than previously imagined. Thought you’d just said you’d left the priesthood.” She tried for a laugh, but it came out closer to a panicked squawk.

He just looked at her, endlessly patient. Endlessly fond.

She sat back, dumbstruck for what very well might be the first time in her life. She wasn’t sure what she was feeling. Elation? Fear? Acid-reflux? Dread for the god-strike that was surely to follow?

He offered nothing else but space for her to process—a quiet reassurance, an openness in his very being she wasn’t nearly equipped to acknowledge right now.

The doorbell broke the moment as Joe, one of her regulars at Chatty Wednesdays, walked in.

“Hello dearie, do you happen to have that new sco-oh.” He cut off abruptly, eyes quickly taking in the flushed faces, uncomfortable silence, and spill of reddened napkins across the table.

“I’ll ah, I’ll just leave you to it then,” he said, reversing out the door.

The priest let out a little chuckle, some of the tension alleviated by the intrusion. “I meant to do that a bit more smoothly, I promise.”

She tried a small smile back, but wasn’t particularly confident in its execution

“Why would you, I mean I don’t…I don’t quite understand.”

“It was time. I was called to something else. To a different…kind of service. It just took me a while to hear it.”

He paused, a wry smile on his face.

“It took a particularly pointed kick in the ass from an old friend, and a lot of thought. A lot of prayer. And a fair bit of whiskey, to be honest. But in the end, I had to acknowledge that suffering might be the lot of the saints, but it did nothing for my own faith. It weakened my calling, instead of validating it.”

She hesitated, but couldn’t help but ask. “And that calling is?”

He smiled. “To love. Not just my flock, as I once thought. Not just as a Father, but with every part of me. The ecstatic, the divine, the lustful. To see it for what it is—the connection, the devotion. The love of God put into practice.”

She felt warmth creep into her frozen limbs, a hope tugging at the edges.

She still felt her thoughts lagging behind their usual rabbit’s pace, the emotion and the logic and the consequence of it all spinning in her head. She grasped the first focal point she could find—that light green smudge on his wrist again. That smudge would be her world, for now. That smudge made sense.

She reached a hand across the table, pressing gently against the spot. He stayed still, letting her trace the outlines of the mark.

“So...you’re a painter now?” She asked quietly, inspecting the smudge.

He let out a low chuckle. “Something like that. One of the members of my—of the old flock—works in a non-profit fixing up houses and flats for families that can’t afford it. Some in London, but a fair bit in the country, and maybe around the world, when the funding comes through.”

He flipped his other hand over, inspecting the new calluses and paint stains underneath his fingernails.

“It’s good work—important work. Though the outfits aren’t quite the same.”

He sighed longingly, gesturing at his work-worn shirt and dark jeans.

“Not big on embroidery, I imagine?” she inquired, a smile tugging at the edges of her lips.

“Nah, gets stuck on all the bits and bobs. Terrible inconvenience, really.”

He took her hand from where it still rested on his rest and cradled it gently in his own.

“That’s not the reason I came though. Not after all this time.”

He lifted her hand to his mouth, pressing softly against her palm.

He closed his eyes, savoring the warmth.

“It wasn’t just God,” he whispered. “It wasn’t just God, and I was a fool.”

Something finally broke inside her, filling her with an emotion she couldn't bear to describe.

She couldn’t help but to pull him towards her, no other thought than that he had been too far from her for too long, much, much too far, and she couldn’t stand it for another second.

It was terribly uncomfortable, the rounded edge of the table poking into her stomach and head throbbing in a way that was somewhat worrying, but all that faded away because he was there, right there. His mouth against hers, the warmth of his hand on her neck, the softness of his hair between her fingers--this was her world.

Maybe there was more to say. More to poke at a bit harder, to make certain of his choice, to guard against a second loss she feared would devastate her. But she knew, deep down, that there was no other choice to be made—this is where they were always going to end up. Inevitable, in the way so many things have been in her life.

So she did what she'd been practicing in the months of his absence.

She pushed deeper into the embrace, and let her doubts fall behind her.

//

Later that night, with Hilary safety in her cage downstairs and a clear moonlight coming through the windowpane, the man she loved sleeping beside her, she let her mind wander.

She’d thought a lot about what he’d said, that first night. When she showed up at his door with a nothing but a bag of gin-in-a-tins and a weak excuse to see him; him, already sleep-soft and in his pyjamas at half-ten.

For all the intimacy they’d shared in the days that followed, the…clues he’d given that night had been the words she’d dwelled on more than any other, in the months after.

She remembered the spark of warmth, of something she wasn’t quite ready to name, when he told her he believed God’s plan was for him to love. 

How quickly that warmth turned abashed when he told her, as if he could see directly into the plainest part of her soul, that they would never be together.

And, again, the rapid change that came shortly after to a sweet, affectionate kind of sorrow, borne of kinship and understanding, when he showed himself to be the same as her—or at least, once was.

Afraid of love, of its complications, of loss. Fleet-footed towards the first solution that presented itself—a drink or a shag or a friendly face.

“Many times,” he had said.

Many times he had tried to fuck the problem away, a particular tactic Lord knows she was no stranger to.

How funny it was that it was exactly that that ended up saving them both.

But he had said it that night, too—that being with her made him feel closer to God than ever. That she was good for him. She’d taken it as a joke, at the time. They couldn’t have seemed more wrong for each other in the moment.

But in retrospect, with the knowledge that he is beside her now, will be beside her in the morning, for good this time, she can see the parts fall together. The way the story was always going to end, the inevitable collision or conclusion or coda—however you wanted to paint it.

She promised herself, that night at the bus stop, that she was going to keep her love and put it into something bigger than herself. This is that something bigger, for both of them. Call it fate, call it love, call it God, fuck. Who knows.

They are the same in so many ways, foul-mouthed and impulsive and far too fond of a drink, Lord knows. Different in many others, faith not the least of it.

But all of it doesn’t matter. Could never matter.

Because in the end, in the very end, when they’ve exhausted all the should’s and must not’s and could never’s….they’re undeniably better together.

And that’s something worth believing in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for how very long this has taken me--I started my PhD this semester and time to write self-indulgent fic has been, shockingly, scarce. 
> 
> Not sure if I will continue this particular story, but I do have other threads in mind; in either case, please share the endings you see for these two! No joy like an imagined love.
> 
> As always, many thanks for reading <3

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally intended as a one-shot, but can't stop/won't stop, etc. Stay tuned for a follow-up on our star-crossed lovers, as I have this feeling that I won't be able to stop until I get the catharsis I so desperately need, damn it.


End file.
